Spartacus’ calloused fingers
stroked the braid down to her
sharp-boned, tattooed shoulders,
carefully avoiding her ridged scars
too like his own. Her small, compact body
was pressed against his gladiator’s bulk,
and she trembled periodically,
caught in some terrible nightmare.
He wanted to wake her with a kiss,
whisper that everything will turn out alright,
but she was the Prophetess of their warband,
and too keen-seeing for such niceties.
Besides, this troubled sleep
might bring them useful strategy from the Spirits
in their war against Rome.
No matter how terrible the cost,
this suffering was for their people
and both of them knew it.
With a terrible shriek, the dream loosed her
back to reality. For a while after she shook,
and would not speak or be touched.
Finally she stammered out in clipped Thracian,
“The thing beneath the mountain stirs,
and soon the Black Hunter will ride out to meet him.”
